The sound that pulled Alex from the abyss wasn't a blaring siren or the crunch of twisted metal. It was the soft, almost irritating plink of water cascading into a fountain outside the window. He blinked, the harsh sunlight of a Californian afternoon doing violence to his eyes.
White. Everything was white.
He was lying in a ridiculously oversized bed draped in thick silk sheets that felt suspiciously like a wedding dress. The ceiling above was an actual fresco—not a sticker or a digital projection—depicting flying golden horses and plump, scandalous cherubs. The room itself was easily the size of the entire three-bedroom apartment he'd shared back in… back in…
The crash.
The memory hit him like a physical blow: the blinding headlights, the screech of tires, the impossible momentum, and the moment his world ended in a sickening, jarring thud that stole his breath and consciousness. He bolted upright, his heart hammering against his ribs, ready to panic, but a dull, systemic ache throughout his body calmed the hysteria. He was alive.
Or was he?
He looked down at his hands. They were his hands, but they were softer, uncalloused, and impossibly younger. He was in a threadbare cotton t-shirt and sweats, but the wrist peeking out was slender, pale, and lacked the faint, familiar scar from that time he fell off his bike at age ten.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the thick carpet swallowing the sound of his feet. He staggered to a nearby full-length mirror, catching his reflection.
The face staring back was his—his brown hair, his slightly too-sharp jawline—but it was undeniably a teenage version, maybe seventeen or eighteen. He looked wealthy, soft, and utterly bewildered.
"This isn't real," he whispered. "I'm in a coma. I'm having the weirdest hallucination of my life."
He pinched his arm, hard. Nothing. Just the dull ache.
It was then that a voice, too smooth, too confident, and perfectly familiar, sliced through the expensive silence.
"Well, look who decided to join the land of the living."
Alex spun around, his heart leaping into his throat.
Sitting in a plush velvet armchair near the sun-drenched window was Tony Stark.
Not a cosplayer. Not a hallucination. The real, impossible, goatee-rocking, designer-sunglasses-wearing, perfectly-smirking Tony Stark. He was wearing an expensive black shirt and nursing a half-empty glass of amber liquid.
"Took you long enough, kid. You hit your head pretty hard, or so the medical bots insisted," Tony said, waving a hand dismissively. "You look like you just saw a ghost. You know, besides the one your father left behind."
Alex's mind became a screaming, chaotic torrent of panicked realization. The fresco, the wealth, the date on the calendar beside the bed (2008), the name on the wall plaque: A. Stark. The man, the myth, the eventual martyr, sitting right there.
No, no, no. This is the MCU.
He wasn't in a coma. He wasn't hallucinating. He was in a fanfiction cliché.
The System's Whisper
Alex stumbled back, hitting the vanity, sending a heavy silver hairbrush clattering to the floor.
"Easy, Tiger. It was just a mild concussion. The good news is, you didn't break that impossibly pale skin of yours," Tony drawled, sipping his drink, clearly enjoying Alex's shock.
"You're… you're Tony Stark," Alex stammered, the words feeling foreign and idiotic.
"And you are my long-suffering, oft-forgotten younger stepbrother, Alex Stark," Tony replied with a dramatic sigh. "Who, despite being too boring for the headlines, apparently has enough brainpower to survive falling off a jet ski."
The words—forgotten, stepbrother, boring—slammed into Alex, confirming the terrible truth. He wasn't just in the Marvel Universe; he was a footnote, a background character whose only purpose was to prove how emotionally distant Tony was. He was the Forgotten Stark.
Just as the true, spiraling panic began to set in, a new sensation hit him. It wasn't pain, but a sharp, persistent buzzing directly behind his eyes.
A sound, crisp and synthesized, cut through the air, audible only to him.
[BEEP! Multiverse Correction System Initializing…]
Alex froze mid-breath.
[Welcome, Host: Alex Stark. Your status has been upgraded from 'Deceased' to 'Canon Divergence Asset.']
Alex swallowed hard. A System. Of course. It's the only way this could get weirder.
[System Goal: Correct and stabilize major plot points of the host's current universe (MCU Timeline 616-B).]
[Host Reward: Knowledge, power, and the chance to survive the inevitable cataclysm.]
[Failure Penalty: Cessation of existence and total timeline collapse.]
Tony looked at him, noticing his sudden silence. "What, did your brain short-circuit? Go take a cold shower, kid. I'm shipping out in two hours, and I don't need you moping."
Shipping out. The words hung in the air, heavy and metallic.
Alex knew what that meant. Afghanistan. Obadiah Stane. The Ten Rings. The cave. The shrapnel. The birth of Iron Man.
He walked slowly to the massive window, looking out over what must be the Malibu coastline. The sun was brilliant, the air was warm, and the future was death.
[Mission Critical Prompt: Tony Stark will be kidnapped within T-minus 12 hours. This event defines the universe's core trajectory.]
[First Mission: Prevent Tony Stark's Kidnapping in Afghanistan.]
[Reward for Success: Arc Reactor Blueprint + Engineering Proficiency Lv. 5.]
[Penalty for Failure: Host is kidnapped alongside Tony Stark and will not survive the cave.]
Alex stared at the digital text only he could see, the fear turning cold and analytical. If he failed, he was dead. Not just dead, but tortured and killed by the Ten Rings.
He turned back to Tony, whose attention was already drifting to his phone.
"You can't go," Alex said, his voice flat.
Tony barely glanced up. "Can't? I'm Tony Stark. I invent the things people can't live without, and I go where I please. Why? Did I forget to give you pocket money again, Alex?"
The sheer arrogance—the cannon fodder arrogance—was staggering.
Alex knew he couldn't explain the System, the timeline, or the danger. He had to use the resources of his "humanized" self: the neglected younger brother who, despite his quiet nature, might possess a forgotten skill.
Engineering Proficiency Lv. 5. I need that.
"It's a security risk," Alex insisted, stepping forward. "There are holes in the Stark Industries security you wouldn't believe. I've been watching Stane. Something's wrong. You can't leave."
Tony actually laughed, a short, barking sound. "Oh, Alex. Still obsessed with trying to impress big brother with your conspiracy theories? Go back to your expensive games. I'm going to change the world. You're going back to college."
Tony rose, grabbed his sunglasses, and walked toward the door.
Alex had failed the humanized approach. The clock was ticking.
He had one last option, one desperate, absurd move. He needed to prove the danger was imminent, not just theoretical. He needed a micro-sabotage.
He looked down at his soft hands, then at the Mini Arc Reactor Blueprint the System had covertly pushed into his mind, an intrinsic piece of knowledge he hadn't earned yet, but could feel.
It has to be the plane. I have to ground the plane.
He took a deep breath, his heart now racing with purpose, not panic.
[Host has accepted Mission: Prevent Tony Stark's Kidnapping.]
[T-Minus 11:45:00]
Alex sprinted out of the room, fueled by sheer terror and the desperate knowledge of the future. He had less than twelve hours to ground a multi-billionaire's private jet, steal confidential information, and stop the birth of Iron Man—all while convincing the universe's most famous genius that his forgotten younger brother wasn't insane. Failure meant the Ten Rings' cave. He ran toward the private hangar, fully aware that his new life might end before the sun set.